The glorious sight of a Full Moon glimpsed through a colourful cloak of cloud is, in my view, part of this world’s natural magic.
As above, so below.
Our own Full Moon moments are deepened and enhanced by the trailing tassels and many-coloured celestial garments of clouding. We need the sticky wisps to shield us from burning too brightly, from soaring – in Icarus madness – too close to the central radiance.
We seek the firm phallus of the Sun, flirt edgily before his sculpted body and tempting heat – and then, crisped and croaking from the brutal midday act of love-making, death-dealing, our blackened throats caw out raven sounds of despair.
Stroking him when he is gentled by cloud brings a far truer cosmic crescendo of climactic music, and his handsome features shine ever more brightly in the dulled light of contrast.
That which burns can destroy. That which is sheltered, yet centred by heat, creates, as in Wayland Smith’s forge, the best of the human mind and imagination made manifest through the fruits of our earth and the alchemy of the elements.
Clouds shelter and shine and shimmer and shake. They are vibrant and lovely. They hold the train of the triumphant Moon, and keep our water-filled bodies from leathering in the worst of the Solar rays.
They birth rain from their swollen bellies and, in so doing, paint our world with its richest colours.